In Cabo, though, we had no other options. I sailed Valkyrien in as close as I could to the beach without running aground, in about fifty feet of water, and lowered the anchor. The replacement drive chain on the windlass snapped almost immediately, and the windlass spun out of control, free-wheeling as the huge anchor dropped hard into the water, pulling with it hundreds of pounds of anchor chain that clattered across the deck and through a chock, racing down to the bottom, the steel chain screaming and chattering all the way.
We had no way of stopping or even slowing the chain as it fell into the sea at three or four feet per second. Jasper and I jumped away from the runaway chain, fearful that it would maim us or drag us overboard, taking us down to the bottom with it. Almost immediately, we struggled to our feet, leaning in, and with mouths agape we watched helplessly as the chain sped off the boat. Both Jasper and I knew that if we couldn’t figure out a way to stop the chain, we would lose our anchor.
Almost at the last moment, Jasper grabbed the largest screwdriver we had on board—nearly two feet long and half an inch thick—and stabbed it into a link. His long days tramping through the woods and throwing his hand-hewn knife at trees paid off. As the lanced link passed through the chain guide at the edge of the deck, the screwdriver jammed, stopping the chain from running all the way out. We tied the chain in place with a couple of bow lines, and began to wonder how we would ever lift that anchor and chain back aboard.
Danforth anchors were state-of-the-art in the 1940s, developed as a quicker and easier way to anchor World War II landing craft. Until the Danforth, anchors had basically remained the same shape as the one frequently seen on the tattooed arms of seamen around the world. The older anchors relied on weight more than anything else to hold boats to the seafloor. Danforth anchors were built with flukes that could dig into a sandy bottom and, once set, hold boats well. In recent decades several new anchor designs have been manufactured, all of which hold vessels more reliably, in nearly all conditions, than the Danforth.
The principle defect with the Danforth is that if the wind shifts, the boat swings around and instead of holding the Danforth in the sand, pressure from the boat can actually lift the anchor out. Also, if the helmsman does not intentionally set the anchor, the flukes can start to drag along the ground, creating lift, almost like the wings of a plane, preventing the anchor from grabbing. In those circumstances, the boat will slowly creep away, often without the crew realizing it. The issue is so problematic that modern GPS systems are often set to sound an alarm if the boat moves more than one hundred feet or so from the anchoring point.
The best way to ensure that a Danforth anchor will hold is to drop a huge amount of chain onto the seafloor; this tends to keep the flukes low and digging into the sand.
At this point, floating above our pendent anchor, we faced a set of issues:
1.Our anchor lay about one hundred feet below us, and attached to a chain we could not possibly lift.
2.We had just entered a crowded harbor.
3.We were low on fuel—so low that I figured we could
reliably count on only a few hundred yards of power.
4.We needed the fuel to land at the fuel dock. Certainly we could not land at the dock under sail.
5.I could have laid out more chain, which would have helped the anchor to hold, but we had no way of getting the chain back aboard. Chain is expensive, and difficult to come by in Central America. I did not want to lose more chain, so I resolved not to let any more chain out.
We lay floating in the harbor of Cabo San Lucas with an anchor suspended, one hundred feet below the surface of our bow, dangling above the sandy bottom, or dragging along the seafloor, with no motor and very little wind (our sails were already down).
I resolved to set the anchor on the Valkyrien without turning on the engine and without releasing more chain, nor using the motor. We put up our sails and headed in toward shore. The closer we got to the beach, the shallower the harbor became, until finally the anchor began rubbing hard along the bottom. We loosened the sails as the anchor bounced and, finally caught, holding us on a sandy bottom in forty feet or so of water, a few hundred yards off the beach. We readied the sails so they could be pulled up instantly if Valkyrien began to drag.
An hour or so later, just after dark, I swam ashore and purchased fresh food, then swam out to Valkyrien again, and climbed aboard, stretching out on my back and resting by the helm. The harbor was unusually dark for a moonlit night. The wind blew at only 1 to 2 knots. But later, near midnight, the wind shifted. Valkyrien turned a slow circle and began pulling the old anchor in the opposite direction from which it had been set. The anchor lifted out of the sand, smoothly and easily. The tide raised us up, carrying the anchor a few feet off the sandy bottom. The new breeze pushed us north across the harbor, with the anchor still dangling below us like a giant fishhook. The wind drifted us into the deeper water of the bay. No longer dragging, we were simply floating along, the chain far below the boat but also far above the deep bottom.
My first thought, of course, was to raise the sails to gain some control over Valkyrien. I checked our direction, and as it seemed we probably would not hit any other boats, I decided to wait a bit. Drifting in that harbor at night was both ridiculously dangerous but also remarkably relaxing. We meandered slowly past several gargantuan motor yachts. They were anchored so far out and away from everyone that they did not use security codes on their Wi-Fi systems (which must have been outrageously expensive, using some sort of satellite hookup). Pirating their internet, Jasper and Kit and I dashed off emails to friends and family each time we floated by a mega yacht. Valkyrien drifted slowly back and forth, pushed by a gentle wind and slight tides, throughout the night. I knew that in the morning we would have to somehow lift the anchor aboard, and I dreaded the task.
The next morning Jasper and I passed a 12-foot rope through the anchor chain, about fourteen inches below the top rail of Valkyrien. Jasper and I then each wrapped opposite ends of the rope around our shoulders, while crouching like a body builder getting ready to do a heavy squat. We then stood up, pulling the chain a foot or two up onto the deck. Kit crouched beside us, holding a second line with one end cleated down. We were able to lift the anchor just enough for Kit to tie his line through the lifted chain and tie it off, raising the anchor about fourteen inches. We repeated this process in the wet heat of the harbor a foot or so at a time, until we got the sixty or so feet of chain onto the deck and the anchor to the side of the boat.
The most difficult part of the process—probably because we were so tired at that point—was lifting the anchor itself over the side gunwale and up onto the deck. We got the flukes of the anchor alongside of the boat but the shaft angled down, and the chain lay completely out of reach as it wended its way to the guide on the bow. To get the anchor on board, we had to carry the anchor and fifteen feet or so of chain in a single lift. This was an awkward load, and the three of us collapsed from the effort—drinking many bottles of Gatorade afterwards while lying on our backs on the deck, nearly unable to lift our heads or get up.
Without an anchor, the boat, of course, immediately began to drift. We were too tired to stand. Every couple of minutes one of us would summon the strength to raise our head sufficiently over Valkyrien’s bulwarks to see that we were not in any immediate danger of collision. But we called it pretty close. Several times Valkyrien meandered within a boat-length of some moored vessel. The wind was barely blowing, so that we wafted quietly through the harbor while regaining our strength.
We lay there for twenty minutes or so. At first I didn’t move because I was too tired to stand. But even after I had the energy, I lay in the bow, not wanting to face the reality of trying to start the motor.
We were nearly completely out of fuel. I wasn’t sure we would have even enough to start the engine. Once started, I would drive Valkyrien to the fuel dock in the crowded in
ner harbor. If we ran out of diesel in the inner harbor, Valkyrien would likely smash into dozens of tightly parked boats. The engine cranked over and started beautifully. I spun the wheel and held my breath, with a sickening sense of the imminent possibility of doom and humiliation. All night I had worried about this moment—the time between starting the engine and arriving at the dock. If we ran out of fuel I would be powerless to stop Valkyrien from drifting, bumping and smashing into every boat in that crowded little harbor. Valkyrien turned toward shore and we chugged closer and closer. My worry turned to relief though as I pulled Valkyrien gently up to the fuel dock, safe and sound.
Bob Nixon had planned to meet me again in Cabo, and as we passed the fuel pumps I saw him in his standard border-crossing uniform—a blue Brooks Brothers button-down Oxford shirt and worn khakis. He already had his wallet out to pay for what was going to be an astronomical fuel bill. I can’t put into words how happy I was to have Bob along again; no one was more fun on a hard trip than Bob.
After fueling and filling Valkyrien’s water tanks with potable water, we headed back out to the mooring field and reluctantly prepared to drop the anchor and chain back over the side. First we pulled about 120 feet of chain onto the deck, then tied the chain off at the bow and humped the whole thing over the side. Very quickly we had the anchor in the sand with 120 feet of chain. Dropping the anchor was a commitment, like Irish boys throwing their hats over a wall. Getting it up is the hard part. We had fully committed to getting the windlass working.
Jasper and I swam to shore, then took a taxi and walked through the light industrial districts, searching for parts to repair the windlass.
I had picked from Jasper by then then how to enter a shop and gain help. We would walk into the machinery space together in our work clothes, not saying a word or looking at anyone nor ever smiling. I would stop in front of a lathe and watch two men working a piece of metal, then make an offhand and unintelligible comment directed only at Jasper.
Jasper would not respond except to nod his head at something in a pile of metal that looked slightly out of place. All of the men working in the shop recognized that the one thing Jasper noticed should not have been left in that pile. Perhaps someone would be in trouble. Or, perhaps someone had just been saved from being in trouble. Sometimes we would walk through shops for twenty minutes before anyone spoke to us, saying something like, “What do you need?” At which point we would shrug and say something noncommittal, like, “We are looking for some square bar.”
Shop master: “Why do you think that you need square bar?”
Jasper: “So it fits.”
Shop master: “We can grind it down.”
Jasper: “Well, you could, but I’m not sure you can make it square with just that lathe.”
Shop master: “I definitely can. I do that all the time. How long does it need to be?”
Jasper: “Well, it is going to have to be welded. Do you know anyone around here who has something big enough to hold a weld at more than 500 kg?”
Shop master: “We make deep welds here all the time.”
Jasper:“Well, if you have some round bar, about 1 ¾–inches thick.”
Shop master: “I don’t have it, but I can get it.”
Me: “When?”
(The fact that I have not yet spoken and I am only interested in deadlines shows that I am the boss and the one with the money.)
Shop master: “Well, today is Saturday. It’s too late to order it already. Monday is a holiday, so I can order it Tuesday, and we will probably have it here Wednesday or Thursday morning.”
(The shop master thinks that this timeline is not merely reasonable, but actually quite impressive in its efficiency and overall timeliness.)
Me: “That is too late. We have a broken piece, and the owner of the boat will be here tomorrow. We have to fix it before he gets here.”
Shop master: “Well, you could go to San Eugenio. They are tearing down a building there. Maybe you could get them to sell you a part of the fire escape. It is steel. In fact, it’s square bar—I think.”
Me: “What time does the bus run to Eugenio?”
(I do not ask where to find the bus. It is clear I already know where the station is, so I am not rich enough to take taxis. Also, I am Jasper’s boss—but I am not the boss. I must report to someone. I rush him, not because I’m in a hurry, but because I will be in trouble if I don’t get this fixed in time. I share something with the workers—a vague sense of fear at not getting enough done for the boss.)
Shop master: “Never mind the bus, my nephew will drive you.”
(We then get into a 1983 blue Nissan, which rides about three inches above the crumbling roadway. After finding nothing at the torn-down building, we convince the nephew to drive us to four more places until we find square bar. Jasper then produces a portion of a bough of a tree he picked up before we left Los Angeles. He had whittled the little branch until it fit perfectly into the slots on the windlass. We would grind the steel bar, and weld corners on it until the bar measured the exact same dimensions as the whittled wood.)
This is not exactly how it went that day, but it is a fair-enough approximation of our general method for procuring difficult-to-find items.
When Valkyrien was built in the 1920s in New Zealand, packet schooners were not equipped with electric motors to lift their anchors. Originally, the windlass was driven by hand, with two humongous crank handles, made of iron or steel, 1¼-inch thick and squared off to lock into the windlass. Two sailors working together would turn the windlass manually with the cranks, lifting the anchor.
Of course, it’s likely no one had lifted Valkyrien’s anchor manually in decades. We had no idea if the old system would work. But when we took the windlass apart, the grease looked good, so we stood hopefully in that welding shop. Eventually Jasper convinced the shop master to let him do most of the welding himself.
We walked a few blocks before jumping back into the cab. Kit picked us up in the Whaler, now fueled, and we inserted the two gigantic cranks into either side of the windlass and began turning. It worked perfectly. In the following weeks we suffered a bit each time we lifted the anchor, but Kit grew stronger and we managed.
We left Cabo the following morning bound south toward Manzanillo. Threats of bad weather, bad fuel, and a leaking boat faded from my mind whenever Bob was aboard. We laughed and laughed throughout each day. Bob is a master camp-chef, and in the end, no matter how bad a trip is, if the food is good, the trip cannot be terrible. Bob supplemented whatever we found in the galley with fish we caught from a line off our stern. We ate lobster tails with rice and baked beans. He cooked eggs fried in bacon grease beside a grilled steak for breakfast. And then we shared old stories of camping and fishing, trips together and raising our children.
18. Kit Drinks the Water
There is something in the clear blue warm sea of the tropics,
which gives to the stranger a feeling of unreality.
—Richard Henry Dana, Two Years Before the Mast
Unfortunately, we had almost no wind crossing below the Sea of Cortez. We had to run the engine the whole trip. The 6V53 on Valkyrien is a two-stroke engine; most modern engines are four-stroke. The major difference is that the cylinders in a two-stroke engine are directly lubricated with engine oil and tend to burn more oil. The Valkyrien’s engine burned nearly as much oil as diesel fuel, and as we cruised by the entrance to the long bay at Puerto Vallarta, we poured in our last five-gallon drum of oil. Ordinarily we would simply drift, waiting for the wind to come up, but Bob was on a tight schedule. We had to buy more oil to keep the engine running so we could get down to Manzanillo in time for Bob’s flight.
Puerto Vallarta sits miles inside one of the largest bays in Central America. The sea was calm. We had little prospect of wind, so Bob and I decided to take the Whaler on a 170-mile trek in search of 40-weight engine oil. The two of
us drove the full eighty-five miles into Puerto Vallarta then hobbled inland, tired out by the long, bashing trip in an open boat. We stopped at every fuel station and agricultural supply shop we could find, buying ten-gallon buckets of heavy 40-weight oil. Finally we filled each of the gasoline tanks in the Whaler to the brim, then headed back out to sea to find Valkyrien.
The Whaler had no navigation equipment save its nearly fifty-year-old compass. We had told Jasper and Kit to keep Valkyrien running, south-southeast, at about 4.5 knots, so we would know where they’d be. With the sun setting, we made it out of the sweeping bay, but we saw no sign of our ship. We had already traveled about seventy miles by then, and the Whaler had only enough fuel to cruise about ninety-five miles in total: no way we’d be able to make it back into the bay at Puerto Vallarta. I stopped the Whaler to experience a moment of shining calm. We quietly approached an extraordinary collection of seabirds at rest beside each other as evening fell in this lonely spot of the Pacific Ocean.
In our rush to purchase oil, Bob and I had missed the paradise of land birds in the jungle that surrounds Puerto Vallarta. I am a licensed master falconer, and have observed birds in many settings: jungles and swamps, mountainsides, heavy forests and across plains, on seas and parts of the ocean. Not one of these experiences prepared me for the moment of our approach into this collection of indignant seabirds, roused by our Yamaha outboard.
A single gray gull struggled up out of its slumber, followed immediately by line after line and then great groups of seabirds taking to the air. Gliders, dark frigates, and others, lured by the visual and auditory phenomenon of our boat, flew directly toward us, joining the brown pelicans with their striking golden heads and more gulls by number and species than I have seen before or since. Thousands upon thousands of birds took to the air, all seeming at once curious, angry, or alternately oblivious to our presence in their realm. This was not a peaceful moment—nor was it disturbing. We simply had one long astonishing shared experience at sea, the kind of thing that happens so often for sailors, which when described to landsmen can neither be translated nor understood as likely or possible, or even to have existed.
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